


Five Word Prompts

by amaradangeli



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Five word prompts, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:23:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: My contributions to theFive Word Prompts Ficathonhappening over on Tumblr.These stories are all unrelated and written in whatever order was inspired to write them in. There are 100 prompts in total. No clue if I'll get through all of them.I've opted not to rate the collection as I have no idea how the spirit will move me. For the same reason, I've not only chosen no archive warnings but pointed out my choice. If something majorly in need of a warning happens, I'll do my best to remember to update that section.





	1. It's just a cut, really

He stood in front of her, between her and the priest. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the tension radiating off of him. He was tight like a bow string, his stance calculated to be disarmingly casual and yet vaguely threatening.

"Sir," she said quietly, "it's just a cut, really."

He looked over his shoulder at her. She had her forearm pressed against the upper swell of her breast where the tip of the priest's blade had scored her skin through the heavy fabric of her BDU jacket. In truth, it would be good if she could get it seen to, because it hurt and she could feel the blood loss in her head. But this standoff between the colonel and priest would have to reach its natural conclusion first, she knew.

The visit on this planet had been fraught with cultural differences and misunderstandings from the very beginning and it was no secret that the local population had little respect for their women or the woman that had come through the gate with SG-1. She'd been alternately harassed and ignored for the better part of two days. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

But then, five minutes ago, she'd made the serious transgression of stepping foot into the one tent she was absolutely forbidden to enter, apparently. The priest had slashed at her with the knife before he'd even been standing all the way. Luckily, Colonel O'Neill had been walking in right behind her. Now the three of them were in a standoff that O'Neill was only tolerating due to his extreme lack of weaponry and the mad, devil-may-care look in the priest's eyes.

The colonel was wary of turning his back on the man, she knew. But at the current juncture she was willing to just back out of the place if it meant she could get somewhere with a first aid kit. The cut stung unnaturally and she wondered if his blade had been coated with some local poison.

"But I could use some first aid."

She could see the way his jaw clenched. They both knew it was more than just a simple cut if she was asking him to back down. He leaned towards the priest, just a hair, just enough to make the latent threat he'd been going for initially seem a little more pressing. With the courage of his history – and knowing that she'd have his back, injured or not – he made a calculated turn, presenting the priest with his back, and then ushered her out of the tent. She didn't turn her back on the knife-wielding man.

Back out under the bright sun she looked down at the same moment the colonel did. She was a little shocked by the solid bloom of scarlet across the fabric.

"Shit." His voice. Rough, low, angry, sad.

His hands were on the buttons of her jacket, passing each one through its hole, before she'd formed an opinion on the next good idea. He peeled the garment off of her. Her blood flowed steadily, especially without the added pressure of her forearm against the wound. The light headedness threatened to take over.

She curled her hand around his forearm and swayed on her feet. "I think I'm going to pass out." She blinked.

She must have passed out. Because when she opened her eyes again she was lying on her bedroll in their small camp, a large t-shirt – Teal'c-sized -  was spread over her and she could feel the pull of tape against her skin where a bandage must be. The reassuring pressure of the underwire in her bra made it easy for her to close her eyes again and assess her situation. She was decent enough. The pain was a shadow of what it had been before. And the glimpse she'd caught of the affected area was remarkably blood-free.

"You back with us?" His voice wasn't as edgy as it might have been, and for that she was grateful. The whole mission had been a giant pain in the ass and she liked the soothing cadence of his unpurturbed voice.

"Yes, sir."

"You passed out." He sounded amused. She refused to open her eyes to find out.

"It does appear that way."

"You lost a lot of blood. There must have been an anti-coagulant on that knife."

She cracked one eye. He was sitting nearby, his own knife in one hand, the cloth he carried to clean it in the other. "Where did you get your weapons?"

"Funny thing," he said, as if she hadn't spoken, "but it seems like negotiations have deteriorated and we won't be forming a lasting trade relationship with this planet."

"Ah."

"Teal'c offered to carry you back to the gate. But I figured you'd wake up sooner rather than later."

She became aware of the sound of the other two men packing up their gear. "Thank you, sir." She preferred, as a general rule, to get to the gate under her own steam.

"Your shirt was ruined. You'll have to wear Teal'c's."

"Okay." She kind of wanted to put it on right that moment. But that meant flashing her underwear at her CO and while there were times she didn't mind the idea, and other times she's had to, she figured waiting for a moment of relative privacy wasn't a bad thing.

"Your gear is packed. We'll leave as soon as the tents are stowed." He pushed himself into a standing position. She met his eyes, all the way up there, six feet off the ground. "I'll go get you a canteen."

"Thank you."

She slipped the t-shirt over her head while his back was to her. It hurt to move like that but it was better than it had been before. She thought she probably wouldn't pass out of the way to the gate, anyway.

He came back with the water and gently pulled her to her feet. She wasn't sure what to say, she was oddly embarrassed even though she knew none of the events of the past little while were her fault. But she hated appearing weak. And she hated being the one to put him in a position to chip away at his already damaged psyche.

She cast her eyes down to the knife in the sheath on his hip. He shifted his weight and shucked off the discomfort her gaze. He didn't want her to think about what he may – or may not – have done in her name. She understood. She'd done – or sometimes not done – things she wasn't proud of, too. She'd allow him the privacy of his own action.

He cleared his throat and moment behind her caught his eye. It was time to go. She smoothed a hand over the edge of the bandage under Teal'c's shirt. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

"I hope not." She spared a small smile, knowing he'd choose to believe that she meant she hoped to not get sliced again. Of the things that happened that afternoon, she thinks she probably got off easiest. After all, for her, it was just a cut, really.


	2. Forget I even asked you

The harsh sound of her breath, the pounding of her heart, the buzzing of second thoughts, it all creates a cacophony that does finally fade into the bright-white of nothingness in the moment right before her brain over-compensates and she melts to the floor in an unconscious heap.

When she wakes up she’s staring at a textured ceiling with ugly florescent lighting, the edge of a counter top, and her CO’s worried face. The previous minutes come rushing back in with the sound of a 747 taking off and a lifetime’s worth of embarrassing moments making way for this one, last, giant fuck-up.

His right hand is behind her head. She can feel his fingertips, the way they’ve sifted between her hair and are pressed against her scalp. It’s hot outside and she was sweating and she wonders if he can feel the dampness.

His left hand is pressed against her belly, pressing her down into the floor just slightly, like he’s afraid she’s going to get up. _Only to run_. But it would be perfect if he’d just keep pressing her down into the floor so the linoleum could swallow her up and so she wouldn’t have to face whatever comes next. Because no escape she could make would be faster than the questions she can already tell are forming inside his mouth.

“Forget I even asked you,” she blurts. She’s surprised she spoke.

He is too. He opens his mouth but closes it before anything comes out. A resigned look passes over his face. “If that’s what you want.”

She sighs. Good. They’re going to ignore what just happened.

“But you just… Carter… you _fainted_.”

She rolls her eyes. “I did _not_ faint.” He quirks an eyebrow at her. It _is_ rather hard to argue the fact when she’s lying on his kitchen floor. “I momentarily lost consciousness.” Air Force officers don’t fucking faint. Even after their fathers have died and their engagements have ended.

“When was the last time you ate something?”

“Can I get up, please?”

He looks at the hand on her belly and appears genuinely surprised to find it there. “Oh. Yeah.”

She gets to her feet, but it’s not nearly as graceful as she’d have liked. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to hightail it out of there. But he’s looking at her like he’s pretty sure she’s on her way straight off the reservation and after the little show she just put on she feels a little like she owes him something. An explanation, maybe.

But she’s lightheaded. She grips the countertop to steady herself and tries to remember when, exactly, she _had_ last eaten. She thinks it was probably yesterday, mid-afternoon, when he’d plunked a bran muffin and a can of cranberry juice down on the reserve lab table. She’d been hiding. But he’d found her. He always did. He’d stayed long enough to watch her peel the paper away from the muffin and pop the top of the juice, but she had finished both because the gift had felt oddly like an order.

“I swear to god, Carter,” he says with a grimace, “if the only times you’re gonna eat are when I make you, you’re gonna get tired of the sight of my face.”

That’s what makes her laugh. Well, the sound is sort of like a laugh, but she feels a great clutching in her gut and a tightening in her throat and by the end it sounds a little strangled and maniacal. After what she just asked him does he really think she’s going to get tired of him _ever_?

Silence stretches between them, odd and uncomfortable after the pained noise that had been ripped out of her. She sees him consider how to proceed. She’s seen that look on his face countless time in the field. It’s risk assessment.

“Tuesday nights are all-you-can eat ribs at Lucky’s. And the beer’s two-for-one until sundown.”

If she wants her answer, she’s going to have to eat. “I’m parked behind you. Might as well let me drive.”

“You were just conked out on my floor.” He holds out his hand. “I’ve always wanted to drive that little sports car.”

Nobody drives that car. Pete had _never_ driven that car. She fishes the keys out of her pocket and lays them in his palm.

Lucky’s isn’t much of a place to look at from the outside or the inside. The corrugated aluminum siding and faded white half-circle sign make it look more like an industrial building than a restaurant but the place is packed and kind of loud. The beers come in bottles with water logged labels and the ribs come on a round aluminum baking sheet with sauce-streaked parchment paper hanging over the sides. There’s a red plastic basket with three slices of garlic bread but no actual vegetables anywhere near the table. The waitress leaves a stack of white paper napkins and two ineffective-looking wet nap packets and they don’t see her again for a while.

He talks to her about baseball even though he knows she doesn’t know anything about the teams or players that isn’t more than a decade old. But the rhythm of his voice is nice and she can follow it, even through the din created by the other diners. Soon, four brown bottles sit empty on the table and there are full ones in their hands. She’s picking at the label on hers.

“That’s a sign of frustration.”

She stops peeling but doesn’t look up at him despite the shock she feels. Because that’s not _exactly_ what people say the twiddle means. And what it actually means is absolutely _not_ the sort of thing they generally say to one another. She’s not sure how to answer. Through her lashes she can see him take a pull off his bottle and settle against the back of the booth. His foot brushes against hers under the table and she moves away quickly.

The whole thing suddenly feels like throwing caution to the wind. Like whatever she says next sets the tone for everything that will happen in her future.

She cocks her head to one side before fixing him in her gaze. “Sexual frustration, if memory serves.”

He raises one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but isn’t quite ready to rise to the bait. They both know her reply was a commentary on her sex life. And they both know she’s not the only one with a recent sex life.

His thumbnail starts pushing at the corner of his label, too.

She doesn’t exactly buy it. She didn’t know Kerry. But she looked like she probably knew what she was doing. But maybe frustrating isn’t just about no sex vs. bad sex vs. good sex but also about who you were having sex with.

And maybe she just got the answer to the question she’d blurted out in his kitchen.

“Ask me again.”

Her beer is sticking to the carboard coaster she’s using to keep from making a wet ring on the table. While she contemplates screwing up her courage again she shakes a bit of salt onto the coaster and then tests the modification a couple of times. She touches her fingertip to an errant grain that made its way to the wooden table top.

“If I told you I still had feelings for you, would it change anything?”

“No.”

She sucks in a breath. She hadn’t actually been expecting that answer. At least, not that quickly.

“But you’re asking the wrong question.”

Intriguing. “What’s the right question?”

“ _Jack…”_ he grins at her a little, like getting her to say his name is part of the game, “ _are you in love with me?”_

Her eyes widen enough that she can feel the pull of the skin. Her heart is pounding and she’s suddenly very nervous about the way the sounds in the restaurant are narrowing away like things had in his kitchen. But she manages to wrap her mouth around his name. “Jack…”

“Yes.”

Not a question, not an entreaty to continue. An answer, to the question she should have posed.

Underneath the table, she presses her foot against his.


	3. Here's a glass of whatever

She was with three other women she probably knew. He sized them up from across the room while the bartender – a title Jack was using loosely – poured questionable champagne into those horrible wide, shallow glasses that were popular back when _he_ got married. He was both sure they had a name and that they’d gone out of fashion while he’d still been one half of a couple.

The women surrounding Carter were not Carter’s cup of tea. He could tell by the pinched look on her face that was masquerading as polite interest in whatever those practically inappropriately dressed women were saying.

Up near the dance floor the bride was needling the groom for a dance to a song Jack himself wouldn’t begin to know how to dance to and he figured the newly-minted husband was probably just as lost. But he was game. He swung her around in a graceless arc that made her laugh loud enough that heads turned in her direction – even Carter’s.

She schooled it quickly, but he knew her well enough to peg the wistful look from across the room. _Yeah_ , he thought, _Carter would want to be married._ He saw her as alarmingly young. She probably didn’t see herself that way anymore. But she was.

Glasses in hand he made his way back to her side. The other women looked him over in a way that made it tough to ignore what they were thinking. He didn’t object to being attractive, but he thought it was pretty classless to make blatant eyes at another woman’s date when she could see you doing it. They didn’t know the nature of his relationship with Carter. It was rude.

“Here’s a glass of whatever.” He flashed her a wry smile. Carter was, inexplicably, a wine snob. Whatever sparkling crap the bartender had poured wasn’t even in the same region as champagne. He took a sip just as Carter did.

Her eyes widened and she conspicuously didn’t swallow. “Is this _flavored_?”

“I think it’s Cold Duck.”

Thankfully, she swallowed but her laugh; god it was abrupt, gorgeous, and it was better suited for a sports bar than for one of the swankier ballrooms in Colorado Springs. She quirked one perfectly sculpted brow at him and then tossed the rest of the glass back with all the precision of a shot of tequila and then held out her hand waiting for him to do the same and pass his glass over. He didn’t disappoint her, even if he could feel the bubbles up into his nose. She set the empty glasses on the table behind her.

The music faded into something Jack finally recognized with a rhythm that didn’t make his feet ache at the mere thought of dancing and a melody that made his eardrums relax just enough that the tension bled out of his shoulders. The other women were still chatting despite Sam having had extricated herself quite handily from their conversation.

“Dance with me, Carter.”

She covered her shock with a knowing smile and took his proffered hand, one of the rare instances they let themselves touch one another in a non-emergent situation. He folded her up into his arms in a way that might suggest he was doing more than simply driving her home later, but he didn’t mind. No one in the room had any idea they weren’t really supposed to be together.

She danced a little closer than she might have under other circumstances and her hips swayed a bit more than was usual. The curve of her lower back was warm and seductive underneath his palm. And her breath was soft against his neck.

“Thanks for filling in tonight.”

“I was a little miffed you didn’t ask me in the first place.” He danced them around in a quick, showy circle that suggested a skill level he’d never admit to.

“You were not.”

He wasn’t. It was a wedding, for christsakes. He’d rather be home watching hockey. But pinch hitting for Daniel wasn’t so bad if it meant seeing her in a dark blue dress and strappy silver heels that were giving him ideas. He grunted noncommittally and, when the music ended, he dipped her. Her laugh that time was quiet, breathy, more appropriate for the setting but a helluva lot harder on his self-control.

“If I bring you another glass of that Cold Duck, are you gonna knock it back like a freshman? ‘Cause I don’t think this is that kind of party.”

“You like those kinds of parties.” Her tone was just a little too flirtatious. They needed the wide space of the sea of tables between them for at least a few minutes.

“I like you.” Yeah. Definitely needed a little space.

“I’ll be out on the portico. I could use a little fresh air.” She did look a little flushed. Like her words had caught up with her. The wine certainly hadn’t.

“I’ll find you.”

“You always do.”

He watched her stop by their table on her way out, watched her pick up his suit jacket and slide it on. He was grinning like a loon when he got back to the bar. The kid offered him more champagne. He looked around the sea of people he’d never met, that he’d probably never see again. “How about something with a little kick?”


End file.
